


found me

by xxx_cat_xxx



Series: Whumping Tony Stark [29]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Sick Tony, Sick Tony Stark, Steve Rogers Feels, Stony - Freeform, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Vomiting, Whump, Whump and fluff, my very first stony actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22662181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxx_cat_xxx/pseuds/xxx_cat_xxx
Summary: “You take any medicine?” Steve whispers, his fingers running up and down the back of Tony’s hand. Tony shakes his head in response, which hurts, but so does everything. Moving hurts, talking hurts,thinkinghurts. He can’t remember how he got here, what he was doing, just that there were too many people and it was bright and loud and terrible. But he would know if he took anything—probably, hopefully—and the pain wouldn’t be this bad if he did, would it?
Relationships: Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: Whumping Tony Stark [29]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1072683
Comments: 32
Kudos: 279





	found me

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaand I’m back with another Tony vs Migraine ficlet. It’s Stony and I honestly don’t know how that happened. But I hope you like it. Many thanks to Whumphoarder for a lightning-fast beta read. Graphic descriptions of vomiting below.

He’s lying on a couch on the upper floor of the villa where the gala is being held and it must be the middle of the night, but none of that matters much because he’s dying. Someone is sawing his skull in half while he’s awake, fully conscious, and feeling every second of the agony. It’s surgery without anaesthetics, Afghanistan all over again, just that they are going for his brain this time.

The door opens.

“Is he—? He’s here, Steve, we found him.”

“Tony? What’s going—oh. _Oh, Tony_.”

The voices are drilling holes into his brain. The lights are screaming at him at the top of their lungs. It’s too much, all of it. Clumsily, he raises an arm up over his face to cover his eyes. The light seems to penetrate every inch of his body, seeping into his bones and making him shiver. He feels sick.

“It’s a migraine, isn’t it?” Nat’s voice again, lower now.

“Looks like it. It’s okay, I got this. Just—yeah, just leave us alone for a while.”

The door closes and, thank all the gods in the heavens, the light reduces to a bare minimum. Even so, its impact leaves bright flashes dancing behind Tony’s eyelids, his head splitting, his stomach in turmoil.

“Hey.” Steve’s voice is close now, quiet and infinitely softer, his presence radiating both concern and reassurance. The couch dips as he sits down next to Tony and it feels like a ship in a storm at sea. “How ya holding up?”

“‘M gonna puke,” he manages.

“Now?” Steve asks, alarmed.

Nausea is pooling heavily in Tony’s stomach. He nods, squeezes his eyes shut at the vertigo the movement brings along.

“Okay, just hold tight.” Steve’s weight is taken off the couch as he gets up and moves to the back of the room. Something hot rises in Tony’ throat, fast—he can taste vomit at the back of his mouth.

“Steve?” he rasps, frantic.

“Okay, okay, I’m here.” A basin appears in front of his chest and Tony grabs it blindly, pushing himself up with one arm. He lists to the side and Steve catches him, guides him to lean over the receptacle just as he retches. Hot liquid hits the bottom of the bowl. One wave, another, his stomach cramping and his throat on fire. Pain throbs through his skull like it’s being torn apart. The foul smell attacks him, burns an acidic space through his nostrils right into his brain. 

Tony comes up panting.

“Think you’re done?” Steve asks, softly.

Tony weakly shakes his head; there’s more coming. He manages two breaths before his body shudders violently and he brings up another gush.

He feels far away from everything when it finally ends, the agony in his skull so loud that it tunes out all other senses. There’s a hazy curtain between him and the world. He lets his head drop until it hits the back of the sofa. The world is spinning even behind his closed eyelids.

“Take a sip.” Something is placed at his lips, cold and metallic. Tony clenches his lips shut, feeling too sick to even think about drinking anything. “Come on, just to get rid of the taste.”

Tony sips, swirls, almost gags on it again.

“Spit out,” Steve directs, holding the basin under his chin. “Good. Now lean back.” He guides Tony’s head onto a pillow, strokes sweaty curls out of his face.

Suddenly, he’s gone. Tony reaches out blindly to get him back, some primal instinct he wouldn’t usually ever admit to taking over. A moment later, something cold and wet is placed on Tony’s forehead, easing a tiny bit of the stabbing pain. He whimpers in relief before he can stop himself. 

His hand finds warm fingers, finally, and holds on to them. 

“You take any medicine?” Steve whispers, his fingers running up and down the back of Tony’s hand. Tony shakes his head in response, which hurts, but so does everything. Moving hurts, talking hurts, _thinking_ hurts. He can’t remember how he got here, what he was doing, just that there were too many people and it was bright and loud and terrible. He’s so dizzy that he’s not sure which way is up anymore. But he would know if he took anything—probably, hopefully—and the pain wouldn’t be this bad if he did, would it?

He hears the rustle of Steve’s hand in his pocket as he pulls out his phone, and although he turns away, the brightness of the screen assaults Tony’s eyes and tunes up the pain another few notches. He wants to tell Steve to stop it, but the words are gone. Steve seems to know, though, finishes his typing quickly and puts the device away.

The nausea is stronger again, the urge to gag sitting heavily in the back of his throat and Tony tries with all he has to breathe through it. He really, really doesn’t want to throw up again. 

An indefinite amount of time passes in which the only constant is the pounding in his skull and the sickness in his stomach and the soft strokes of Steve’s fingers on his. Then there’s the sound of a quiet knock. Steve straightens up and Tony moans, curls into himself and reaches out until his hand finds something to cover his eyes—a throw blanket, into which he buries his face.

He hears the low creak of the door opening and then Natasha’s voice again. “I got the injectable. Not sure if it will work at this point, though.”

“It might take the edge off,” Steve replies.

“Let’s hope so,” she says. “I’ll be downstairs.”

Steve thanks her and locks the door. Somewhere deep in his brain, Tony knows that later he will be grateful for the privacy, for the fact that Steve doesn’t let anyone else see him like this. Right now he can’t be bothered to care.

Steve is back and starts to fumble with Tony’s belt. Tony knows what’s expected now, and he delivers—tries to, at least.

“’M not sure I can get it up righ’ now,” he mumbles, and there it is, the low chuckle from Steve that tells him the message has been received. A Tony who’s joking is a Tony who’ll be fine, eventually.

Steve tugs down Tony’s pants a little and injects the Imitrex into his hip, then covers him with the throw blanket. He replaces the cool washcloth on his brow with a fresh one and resumes his position holding Tony’s hand. 

Time passes while Tony waits, searching for a sign that the pain will lessen although he knows it’s still too early for the drug to work, knows it might not do anything at all. He can hear his own breathing and his own heartbeat and Steve’s breathing and the thousands of almost inaudible noises emanating from the walls of this house and he feels like the whole world has been stuffed into his brain and it’s too much, it’s cracking at the edges, slowly breaking open.

Steve stirs. “Are you ready to go home?” he asks. “Natasha’s waiting downstairs with a car.”

Tony knows this is the moment when he should nod and sit up and pull himself the fuck together, but somehow the part of his brain responsible for lying has been shorted out by the pain. All he knows is that if he moves, he’s going to puke, and it will _hurt_ and he’s so not ready for that.

He doesn’t say anything, just grabs Steve’s hand a bit tighter.

“Okay,” Steve whispers. “It’s fine, we can stay a little longer.”

“‘M s'ry,” Tony mumbles. He feels pathetic for his relief.

“Don’t worry,” Steve replies, and the words are warm. Tony can hear the smile in his voice even before he starts the next sentence. “I’m not going anywhere. We got time, Shellhead. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://xxx-cat-xxx.tumblr.com/)!


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